


Edelweiss

by CyborgShepard



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, Bottom!Moira, Dirty Talk, F/F, Medical Kink, Mommy Kink, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Squirting, Top!Angela, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-21 04:39:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13733340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyborgShepard/pseuds/CyborgShepard
Summary: “It’sreal.” She’s biting her lip now, eyes roaming, and Moira can feel herself starting to fall apart. “Perhaps none of your partners have known how to indulge you.”Moira stays silent. Staring. Daring her to say the next words.“I could show you.”





	Edelweiss

**Author's Note:**

> The fic that absolutely no one wanted and that nobody asked for! Fill for the prompt that I assigned to myself: _You said you don’t like __ but I bet the people you were with just don’t know how to do it, I, however, have experience and bet I could make you like it_
> 
> There's mild plot, and hefty liberties taken with the ovw timeline, and gratuitous amounts of self-indulgent porn.
> 
> I'm so sorry ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

* * *

  _Well, I know that getting you alone isn't easy to do_  
_With the exception of you I dislike everyone in the room_  
_And I don't wanna lie_  
_But I don't wanna tell you the truth_  
 

“How many?”

“Six.”

“You’re lying.”

The node’s adhesive peels away easily. “I am definitely not.”

“You, or…?”

Moira sticks it to her wrist. A little pulse of electricity chases her veins, and the metal disc settled in the middle of her palm sings softly. “Them.” The small pack on the table in front of her starts to purr and rattle, and Moira bites her lip.

“Wow,” Angela says weakly, fingers flying over the light blue keys of her holopad. “And in one..." she waves her hand vaguely.

Moira holds her breath. She can see the nanobytes swirling in a glass chamber off the pack like oil in water, glittering like thousands of tiny stars. They’re sucked through a thin tube, that flows into a smaller tube, and Moira stands up hastily.

She angles her hand palm out towards the bay window watching over the craggy Gibraltar coastline, where the hot sun is sinking, and splays her fingers.

A delicate little puff of yellow sprays barely a foot in front of her, and wafts lazily down onto the linoleum in front of her feet. “Yes,” Moira whispers, mouth ripped into grin. “I’m a busy woman, you know.”

Angela huffs a laugh. “Clearly not if you can have sex with someone six times in one night.”

The familiar creak of Angela’s chair spinning tells Moira she’s being watched, so she flexes her fingers and beams as the biotic spray twinkles and arcs in a little, steady stream as it slowly depletes.

“Correction,” Moira says softly, unwrapping the gauntlet-like frame of wires and metal holding the disc from her hand. “I brought someone to orgasm six times.”

“There’s a difference?”

Moira huffs, and throws Angela a sly smile. “There definitely is.”

Angela just rolls her eyes, and spins back around in the chair. “Glutton.”

Her skin is sticky from the adhesive, but even as she makes her way to the basin Moira doesn’t stop smiling. It _works._ She knew it would, but seeing it, seeing her little project evolve over the last few months, and everything coming to fruition, is a high that’s heady and dangerously addictive.

And it’ll only get bigger from here.

“You better put all that away,” Angela’s saying, still absorbed her computer, “before Morrison or Reyes catch you.”

“I’m following the rules.”

Loosely.

“You’re using crucial time and valued resources for your own hobbies,” Angela laughs. “I think you’re breaking them.”

Plastered all over her screens is the finer details of Shimada’s enhancements, a blueprint of all the little wires and where they tie with his broken nerves. Moira skims it as she leans against the back of Angela’s chair, over her shoulder.

And she says, “I don’t think Jack would consider comparing our sexual achievements on shift a very worthwhile use of time, either.” She taps the screen on a certain little patch of details, nail chinking gently. “Send me this, would you?”

She’s sure Angela rolls her eyes, but Moira knows she doesn’t really mind. “I like talking to you. You’re the only normal person around here.”

“ _Normal_?”

“You know what I mean.” Behind her, on her own desk, Moira’s holopad pings with an email. “And I trust you.”

Moira doesn’t know how to reply, but by now Angela is used to her silences. Even if she hasn’t discerned the vast array of differences between each and every one of them yet.

So instead of speaking Moira squeezes Angela’s shoulder gently with her right hand, before turning back to her desk and unlocking the bottom-most drawer, which is deep enough to contain the handpiece, and the small metal box attached. Then she sits, and idly bites her nails as she reads over the specs Angela sent her, and thinks a little more about the Biotic Grasp, and barely listens as Angela starts a new line of conversation. Something about something with someone with the coffee machine in the rec room. She grunts in response.

 _I trust you._  
  
  
  
“What’s the most… let’s say adventurous thing you’ve done with a partner?” Angela asks, swinging in her chair, fingers steeped in front of her. Her slack-clad legs are open. She’s bored.

Moira eyes the neverending file in front of her, a report she pilfered from Amari’s office that she won’t notice missing. They’ll be moving out next week, apparently. Bucharest will be absolutely lovely in this mild spring, and completely devastated by this dreadful war. Moira chews her lip in thought.

“I had a girlfriend who liked being stepped on,” Moira muses, staring dangerously at the bottom drawer in her desk. “Liked being dominated, that sort of thing.”

She wonders if she imagined the shiver crawling down Angela’s back, the way her eyes flooded with black. “Yourself?” Moira jabs, instead of checking.

“Someone made me squirt, once,” Angela replies, not missing a beat. “And it was _amazing._ ” When Moira glances up, her eyes _are_ hungry, but far-away.

Moira scoffs, and tucks the dossier back into the manilla folder, and peels off the disposable gloves. “That’s not real.”

“What isn’t?”

She rolls her eyes. _“‘Squirting,’_ as you say.”

A strange flush creeps around the collar of Angela’s maroon turtleneck. She sits up straight in her chair. “Female ejaculation is definitely real, Moira,” she says haughtily. _Defensively,_ almost. Moira cocks an eyebrow.

“It’s something manufactured for pornography. Women can’t really--”

“Yes,” Angela says slowly, eyes narrowed. “From adequate stimulation to what’s known colloquially as the _G-Spot_ you can, technically, ejaculate.”

Moira stares at her like she’s grown a second head.

“Wait,” Angela laughs, and a deadly smile is spreading across her face. She looks up, and scoots forward, and tucks a tress of her pretty blonde hair behind her ear. “Wait. Dr O’Deorain, have you never squirted before?”

Moira can’t help the way she blushes, or the sharp breath she sucks through her teeth.

“Most people don’t orgasm from penetration alone,” she stutters, pulling up statistics in her brain, combined with her own observations, “and the G-spot is _widely_ regarded as a myth--”

She’s embarrassed.

Angela is smiling at her in a way that sends her heart shaking.

“It’s _real._ ” She’s biting her lip now, eyes roaming, and Moira can feel herself starting to fall apart. “Perhaps none of your partners have known how to indulge you.”

Moira stays silent. Staring. Daring her to say the next words. 

“I could show you.”

“Definitely _not._ ”

Angela leans back, and shrugs easily, and doesn’t lose the smile. “Suit yourself. But the offer’s there.”

Moira just clears her throat, and brushes the folder under her arm, along with a bundle of other files she needs to deliver to Amari before evening hits. “Maybe when this war is over,” she suggests sarcastically, before slipping out the door and clipping down the corridor so quickly she wouldn’t be surprised if a little plume of dust was tailing her.

She catches her reflection in the tinted windows of the labs. She’s still bright red.

Fuck.

 _Fuck._

Angela is--

Angela just--

She always talks dirty when she’s bored to death, but she’s never _suggested_ anything. Neither has Moira.

They don’t even _flirt,_ and Moira’s glad, because she doesn’t want to ruin this odd friendship they have, borne of an entire year locked together, working together, and pulling enough shrapnel to build a bloody omnic from each other’s wrought bodies every other month.

She keys a code into the elevator with shaky fingers. The files crease in her grip.

Angela isn’t interested in her. _Her,_ of all people. Angela hasn’t even hit her thirties yet, she’s breathtakingly beautiful and youthfully peppy, and an absolute genius. She could have anyone in the world, only no one is worthy of her. Moira gives herself a side-eye in the reflective steel panelling the innards of the lift. She started greying ten years ago, and the faint freckles around her odd-coloured eyes fold into the crow’s feet there.

They don’t flirt.

Angela wasn’t serious.

But when she looked at her like that--

“Afternoon, Dr O’Deorain!” Cadet Oxton chirps when the lift dings open. The chronal accelerator takes up most of her form, and is glowing and cumbersome, and hangs from her chest, so heavy it leaves her at a perpetual stoop. Perhaps if she had better support across the shoulders, and wore it on her back like a pack--

“Huh,” Moira grunts, eyes elsewhere. Oxton frowns a little, uncomfortable.

“Um, is Dr Ziegler in her office? I had to talk to her about the strange--”

“Patient confidentiality,” Moira interrupts, patting her shoulder and sidling past. “She’s in Lab B.”

The base’s corridors are labyrinthine, and easy to get lost in, but Moira’s roamed these halls for years and knows where people tend to walk less. It’s takes her little more than five minutes lost alone with her dangerous thoughts before she’s in front of Amari’s office, rapping her knuckles against wood.

Amari is like her, and they get along like gasoline and fucking dynamite. Moira sometimes wonders if the world wasn’t the way it is, and if her daughter wasn’t a general in the Egyptian Army, things would be different.

The door opens swiftly, and Ana smiles tightly up at Moira and ushers her in.

There’s a word for women like her, that Angela wouldn’t know, because she’s just too young. She’s not even sure _what_ the terms are anymore, for people like them. Maybe… Maybe Angela could teach her. Because it’s been years since she had anything with anyone, since she fucked someone. No one has fucked her. Ever. That’s her rule.

Moira sprawls in a chair, even though Amari didn’t prompt her sit, and slides the files across the mahogany desk, and she waits for the debriefing she shouldn’t be given yet.

“Good evening to you too, doctor,” Ana says slyly, flicking through the files with a long, calloused finger.

Moira lives by her rule.

But maybe Angela could break it.

 

Entertaining the idea is like juggling grenades with one hand behind her back.

That is to say, dangerous, and leaving Moira with the tendency to explode.

“What do you mean I’m being _transferred_ ,” she snarls, two tense days later, her knuckles white where her hand is fisted on the steel desk. “On what _basis_?”

Reyes isn’t phased. He’s used to her outbursts. He levels her with a look of complete neutrality, perhaps even inflected slightly with _boredom_ if Moira lets her hazy red vision get the best of her.

“Do I need a reason?”

“I should think so,” she seethes. “I’ve been in Overwatch for years.  _Years_ of my work invested, allowing _my_ research to be cobbled with whatever _self benefiting_ technological advances your scientists daydream up. I have _priority,_ as the leading geneticist and _medic--_ ”

“Exactly,” Reyes interrupts, crossing his legs lazily and leaning back like he’s on a nice little beach somewhere on the Spanish fucking coast. “You’re the best. So your skills are needed elsewhere.”

Moira’s glinting eyes narrow dangerously, her lip turns. “Where are you transferring me?”

He scratches his ear idly, as if Moira is just some private who doesn’t realise he’s turning off the commlink nestled there.  

“Blackwatch, of course,” Gabe says, like it’s blatantly obvious. “The funding’s there. Anything you want, anything you need, it’s yours. No more working in the wings with tools from the stone age.”

Moira lets a steady breath through her nostrils. She doesn’t realise how tightly her jaw is clenched til she goes to speak. “And what’s the catch? Sell my soul? Replace four-fifths of my body with machinery?”

Reyes laughs, and it’s cold, and strangely sardonic. “There’s no catch, Dr O’Deorain. You just do the best work you can.”

They stare each other down for a heavy moment, til Moira pulls back, folds her hands in her lap. There’s definitely something Gabe isn’t telling her, but she has the strange impression she’ll be learning soon enough.

“When do you need me?”

“Next week, I should think.”

“Before we move out? Will I still be deployed?”

Gabe hums, and scratches his beard, then his right ear. “Dr Ziegler will be out on the field, no doubt debuting her new prototype of the-- Cadius staff?”

“Caduceus,” Moira corrects dryly.

“Yes, I’m sure you’d know.”

Whatever that means. Moira chews the inside of her mouth to keep from spitting.

“Wherever Captain Amari has you assigned, we’ll leave it at that. For now.”

Another one of those strange looks, then Reyes is straightening up and rifling through a drawer of files in his desk. “You’re dismissed, doctor.”

Moira has to remind herself to swallow before she speaks, to clear her throat to get the words out. “Thank you, Commander,” she manages. “I look forward to our tenure together.”

She turns swiftly, and pulls the door closed softly behind her.

And then Moira stalks down the hallways, all but punching the coded keypad to the elevator, jamming her thumb to the glowing blue number to the science wing.

If there wasn’t a well-concealed little camera spying on her in the corner of the lift she’d have ripped the mirror-like metal from ceiling to floor, spitting every curse she knows, and punched the door til her knuckles bled. So instead she stands still with her hands behind her back, and her bottom lip bitten so hard between her pointed teeth she tastes copper.

He knows. Somehow, he knows, and he _wants,_ and it’s dangerous. Because _she_ knows where to draw the line, the invisible line that can never be crossed. But the hubris of man is that the closer one is to this line in actuality, the further it seems to move away.

 _Fuck,_ Moira screams, and the elevator dings open, and suddenly Cadet fucking Oxton pops up in front if her, and pipes something inane and stupid. Without even regarding her Moira shoulders past, furious eyes ahead, wrist held so tight in her right hand the circulation cuts.

She stalks up the corridors, ignoring anyone who turns her way. She knows she needs to calm down, else she’ll land herself in even more bullshit. She needs to isolate herself somewhere soundproof and with something delicate and prone to breaking. Moira wants to watch something shatter into a thousand little shards, and then throw it all away.

She barges into the laboratory, ignoring Angela’s startled squawk, and the litany of _God woman don’t you knock what if I was handling something dangerous oh wait what’s wrong_ that follows. There are no cameras here, she’s sure, but she yanks open the top drawer of her desk, pouring all its contents on the floor and prying the chipboard out of the bottom. She runs her hands over the wood looking for a little pocket, a passable, nail-like thing, a piece that doesn’t belong.

Nothing.

“Moira?”

She whirls around, and stares at the light fixtures.

“Moira, what’s wrong?” Angela snaps, glancing up at the light and then wincing away pathetically. “What’s going on?”

There could be bugs anywhere. She runs her fingers around the collar of her labcoat, the folded up ends of the sleeves. Moira spits a curse, hands tangling in her hair and pulling it taut.

“Hey,” Angela says, suddenly on her feet, and suddenly crowding into her space. They’re so close Moira can see the ring of green that circles her pupils, before it bleeds out to the icy grey she’s so familiar with. She holds Moira’s shoulders tight, and tries to catch her gaze when she looks away. “You need to talk.”

They’ve never been this close before. They’ve never touched this much before. Except for on the operating table.

_I could show you._

“I trust you,” is what Moira splutters, desperately, “don’t give me a reason not to.”

“Of course. Just… breathe.”

Angela frowns a little, but that imperfection smoothes away when Moira finally looses a shaky, slow breath. Then she flashes one of her darling smiles, and looks up at her from under her pretty, golden hair. She rubs the tension from Moira’s shoulders, then moves her hands across, and down, over her rumpled collar, straightening her up before leaving her palms to rest on her chest.

“How can I help?” Then she waggles her eyebrows, and her thin fingers play with the collar of Moira’s coat. “Having second thoughts? How about tonight, after dinner, I know a nice examination room in the medical wing...”

She doesn’t know why she says it; Angela’s only joking.She's young, and she's pretty, and she's only joking.

Maybe because it’s easier than the truth.

Maybe it’s because she doesn’t want to believe it was Angela who ratted her out.

But Moira shuts her eyes, and sucks a breath, and crosses that feeble, weak little line. “Okay.”

  
  
The glowing placard in the centre of the door glares at her. Moira stares right back, and looses a shaky breath from her tight lungs, and then she flicks her gaze to the privacy-frosted glass above it.

Angela’s on the other side, waiting on her. Maybe she’s standing with Reyes, or Morrison, or Oxton, and the moment Moira raps her knuckles against the wood is the moment she admits defeat, and they’ll all laugh at her, think her desperate like a dog as she heels at Angela’s ankles.

Moira grits her teeth, and shifts awkwardly in the tight pencil skirt. Her wrist comm flashes, and tells her it’s just gone half eight. She’s been standing here for five minutes already.

Perhaps Angela didn’t mean it all, and she just wanted to see if she _could._ If she could weasel her way under Moira’s skin. If Moira would show.

Now she’s just being stupid.

Before her thoughts tangle up the rational part of her brain that wants her to turn and run, Moira knocks twice, and has barely settled her hand back down to tug at her thigh when the door is unlocking, and opening, and then Angela is looking up at her pleasantly, shrouded in a white labcoat, her hair in glowing ringlets around her ears.

“Welcome, Ms O’Deorain,” she says cleanly, and Moira squints and gives her a _look._

“Alright, relax, no role-play,” Angela laughs, locking the door behind them.

The lights are at 30%, and through the dim Athena pulses, soft and blue, holding her computer on standby. On her desk a small, portable record player sits, and one of Angela’s favourite vinyls lazily, quietly spins. Moira recognises it from the labs, something she’d put on sometimes if the silence ever got too much. Otherwise everything is neat, and tidy. Clinical.

There’s just the chair, imposing in the dark and taking up the middle of the room, and a low stool in front of it, and a cart bearing a tray of tools to the right, which Moira doesn’t look at too much.

Angela makes her way over to the chair to tap her foot on the pedal at the base. It whirs softly as she sizes Moira up and adjusts it to her height, head cocked, lip unknowingly being chewed between absent teeth, and the gentle scrutiny is absolutely driving Moira mad.

“What’s the skirt?” Angela finally asks, locking the chair in place when she’s happy with the height. “I’ve never seen you in one.”

Moira has never allowed herself to be sheepish, or _embarrassed_ in front of anyone in a long time, but she’s also never let anyone look at her like that and she’s been on edge for days. She coughs, and glances away, and even that feels like too great a display of weakness.

“I thought it might be...” she says slowly, as if the words are cumbersome, and heavy. “More _ergonomic._ ”

Angela gives a considering little nod, and seems to double-check her supplies. She gestures to the cot in the corner, hidden by the drawn privacy curtain.

“If you’d like to strip, you’re welcome to. I don’t mind.”

“No,” Moira says, too quickly, her skirt caught up in a white-knuckled fist. “No, thank you.”

Angela considers her for a second, and Moira knows her so well she can see all the little cogs turning in her mind, she notices the quick lick of her lips, the drum of her fingers against some metal object on the tray. She’s changing her approach.

She’s standing, and crossing the very short distance between them, til her hands can easily rest over Moira’s shoulders. Her thumbs rub in the muscle over her collarbones, the supple little dip, chasing down her arms.

And then she’s saying, coyly, “Well then,” shrugging, and taking Moira’s hands. “Would you like to strip _me_?”

Their fingers are tangled, and Angela brings her hands to her chest, and she’s looking up at her from beneath her soft eyelashes and Moira’s struggling to breathe. Angela bites her plush bottom lip, and helps her peel away the edges of her coat.

“Fuck,” Moira hisses, and Angela grins wickedly.

“Do you like it? I only ever bother with all this if I’m going to a conference, but you know,” Angela’s saying, but Moira’s brain is shutting down whilst uttering an eloquent litany of _fuck fuck fuck._ “It’s nice to dress up, sometimes.”

Her bra is a red, lacy thing, the band thick and circling her ribs. Her panties match, and they’re clipped to two red garter belts that grip her thighs, and hold up sheer, black stockings that end above the knee. She’s wearing the scuffed kitten heels she always trots around base in, but somehow they look different, even, like this.

 _Angela_ looks different like this, and Moira -- with her malfunctioning brain -- can’t figure out why, til she tucks a tress of loose hair behind her ear, and starts to play with the collar on Moira’s button up.

Angela’s always been attractive, Moira realises, her throat tight, but she’s never been desirable, or at least, she’d never considered her someone to be. She’s young, much younger than her, and in a way, viewed as something to be cared for. Sheltered. Hidden from Overwatch’s lies and coverups, and Blackwatch’s ever present shadows.

But she’s clever, even if she’s looking up at Moira with wide doe eyes with her pink lips parted. Even if she’s shucking the coat and casting it onto the desk, and stepping into Moira’s space.

“Do you want to touch me?” she asks, and Moira splutters. “You can touch me. Here.”

She takes Moira’s thin right hand and without looking away, or flushing, or having any modicum of modesty, settles her palm over her breast.

“I--” Moira starts, but she doesn’t know why, staring incredulously down at where they’re connected.

Angela laughs, light and delicate as crystal. “Come on, Ms Six Times, you’ve talked yourself up. Don’t shy away on me.”

Angela pushes her tits together, and they spill over the cup, and Moira’s breath goes raspy. Her skin is soft, and warm, and jarringly not covered in blood and grime. All her organs are inside her, her bones rightfully hidden. And she’s healthily flushed, and she smells nice, and she smells wet.

Moira’s fingers chase her skin, slipping over her waist, her hips, and Angela still smiles, so she slips two fingers under the red lace between her legs, and then she’s sucking a tight breath between her teeth, and Angela’s grinning.

“Come, sit in the chair,” Angela suggests, pulling away, and off Moira’s fingers, and Moria thinks she’d do anything she asked, in that moment.

Because she doesn’t know what Gabe will make her do, what will happen under his wing.

Because maybe they’ll underestimate Null Sector this time, and none of this will even matter.

Because Angela Ziegler is dressed like she’s from one of those dirty holovids, and giving _her,_ of all people, bedroom eyes, and Moira’s never felt so helpless.

She slides her underwear off, and Angela watches her as she settles into the examination chair. She’s almost too tall for it. She braces her feet tentatively in the stirrups, and the leather slips easily between the heel and the sole of her ankle boots. It’s at an angle where she’s neither laying down fully nor sitting, a happy medium, and Moira stares at the ceiling, the skirt hiked up around her thighs.

Angela’s humming along to the vinyl, coming in and out of view as she tinkers with her tray. Moira didn’t look before, and tilting her head she can just spy what Angela’s gathered. There isn’t much; a little box of disposable, neoprene gloves, a pot healthily filled with translucent, thick lubricant, what’s clearly a small vibrator, and a medium sized speculum.

That makes Moira bite her lip. She stares back up at the ceiling, and listens to Angela unfold what sounds like some kind of tarpaulin, like what they lay out on the ground in the surgical tents when they’re out in the field. Her fingers are still wet where her right hand is fisted down beside her. She rubs her thumb over her knuckles, takes a slow breath.

“What’s the lingerie for?” Moira asks as casually as she can manage, and Angela pops back into view.

She pouts. “Don’t you like it?”

“No, I-” Moira says too quickly, and that pout shimmers away for a wicked grin. “I like it. I was just wondering why.”

She’s fully exposed, but somehow even with Angela standing between her spread legs and blinking at her, Moira doesn’t feel vulnerable.

“Well, you don’t come from here,” Angela explains, sliding her warm hands along the inside of her thighs, down down down and away before Moira can catch her breath. “You come from up here.” She stretches up, leaning over Moira, to gently tap at her temple, and Moira can feel her breath against her lips.

“There’s no way we can get you to squirt without a little warm-up,” she goes on to say, pulling away. “And why does _anyone_ wear lingerie?”

It sounds rhetorical so Moira keeps her mouth shut, because she feels… she still doesn’t feel vulnerable: she’s safe with Angela. But maybe she feels uncertain. Uneducated. It hasn’t been that many years since she’s shared her bed, and people have been fucking since the beginning of the beginning, it’s not a hard skill to master.

But then, Moira thinks, she’s different. With clinical methodism she finds what a person likes, searching their bodies like she’s looking for a hidden button, and then when she does she uses everything she knows and she makes them come, over and over and over. Rarely does a person ever get that exploration with her, however. But that’s the way she likes it.

“Squirting occurs when there’s a build up of fluid in the urethra, above the G-spot,” Angela explains, standing at Moira’s side now and pulling on a pair of green gloves. “Stimulating the G-spot by pushing up with two fingers, and whilst simultaneously pushing down on the perineum, is a standard technique to achieve female ejaculation, but of course, everyone’s different, so don’t feel disheartened if it takes us a while to find what works for you.”

She’s speaking like a doctor, but Moira finds it surprisingly calming. Not that she’s anxious. But oddly she isn’t put out by the slight clip to Angela’s voice, watching the strange hand gesture she’s making: middle and ring finger up and curved, index and pinky fingers straight. She watches her, nods, even as she talks.

“How do you orgasm, predominantly?” Angela asks then, and Moira opens her mouth very eloquently, and says nothing, and shuts it promptly.

“Um.”

Angela just smiles pleasantly. “Orgasms are divided into vaginal, or clitoral, with the latter being more common.”

Moira wets her lips, and stares at the cart. “I don’t generally orgasm. In fact I prefer it if I don’t.”

The facade of Angela’s bedside-manner falls away quickly, and she seems to realise her mouth is hanging open one second too late. She shuts it, but can’t seem to wrangle the strange expression on her face from giving her away. “So,” Angela says, and she licks her lips, and stares at Moira evenly. “You’ve never come?”

“No, of course I have,” Moira tries to quickly rectify, but she’s sure she sounds desperate. “When I masturbate. Which is rarely. I don’t--”

She doesn’t what? She should just say it. They’ve already come this far.

“I don’t like to be touched in sex. There used to be _terms_ for this, back in the day, before you. I prefer-- I _need_ to be in control.”

Angela blinks.

Then she smiles.

And laughs, reaching down to squeeze Moira’s hand where it’s clenching her skirt. “Oh, Moira,” she says, gently prying her fingers from her side, slyly drawing her hand over to her own thigh which is warm and soft. “I could tell _that_ much, you silly thing. Do you still want to do this?”

Moira knows what Angela’s doing, letting her fingers play with the elastic of the garter belt, sneaking over their own accord over the front of her panties. She’s distracting her; but Moira doesn’t mind. About either thing.

“This is fine,” she admits softly, and it’s the truth. If it were anyone other than Angela… “I’m… interested.”

“Good,” Angela whispers, and her breath goes shaky when Moira’s fingers slip past the lace for another taste. “So am I.”

It’s surprising, but in a nice way, just how wet Angela is and how easy it is for Moira to breach her with two fingers. Almost a compliment, really, that Angela is this interested in her. She pumps lazily, once, twice, thrice, then pulls away, and doesn’t look away, when she opens her mouth for her fingertips.

Angela huffs, and Moira thinks she might be blushing.

“Stop it. You’re distracting me.”

But Angela gives her a smile, something soft and kind and fond, and Moira curls her fingers around the armrests in a vice like grip.

“As I was saying: I assume your orgasms are predominantly clitoral?”

Moira licks her lips. “Yes.”

Angela settles down on the stool, and rolls forward between Moira’s thighs. The tarp crinkles beneath the wheels. “Squirting isn’t always synonymous with orgasm; it differs from person to person. And even if we don’t get you there today, I’m sure you’ll enjoy the process, regardless.”

There’s a brief pause where Angela waits for her to say something, but the silence goes unfilled, and she ducks her head. Her hands are cold, and sticky with the gloves, pressed against Moira’s inner thighs. Her breath is hot.

Her tongue is wet.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Moira bites, jolting in the chair. She stares down between her legs, but all she can see is Angela’s blonde head bobbing. All she can feel is her mouth against her cunt, two fingers spreading her and the shock of dark copper curls out of the way. Angela doesn’t waste time with kitten licks and laps, with tentative, teasing strokes: her tongue moves in flat, broad swipes over her clit, and Moira _writhes_.

“You didn’t-- This wasn’t--” she manages to gasp, before stuffing her fingers in her mouth and biting down to keep from moaning.

Angela’s tongue is positively wicked and laves a quick circle over her. And then she pulls off. “Do you want me to stop?”

Moira’s shaking already. She hates how desperate she’s being. “No.”

Angela shoots her a look, something like _then stop distracting me,_ and settles down again. She’s almost methodical, switching from different movements and patterns, from lapping to suckling, and flirting the tip of her tongue over Moira’s entrance, til she finds what makes her moan the most.

Angela spits against her, and doesn’t let up once. Moira’s sure she’ll rip the armrests up before Angela’s done with her, and her boots slip against the stirrups with how her legs are shaking.

A year ago. That was when Angela joined Overwatch. That was the last time she touched herself. But it’s been years since the last time she got head.

“Shit,” she hisses, and she thinks Angela might laugh. She’s sure she’s sopping; the whole afternoon in the labs she’d been shifting awkwardly, her panties thoroughly soaked, trying not to think about what they’d agreed to. What _Moira_ had agreed to. She doesn’t regret it.

Even as she feels a lube-slicked finger slipping inside her alongside a well-timed wet suckle against her clit.

“Oh,” Angela moans against her, and Moira thinks she feels a kiss pressed to the hollow where her thigh starts, but she tries not to think about that. “Oh, Moira, you’re _tight._ ”

“Of course I am.” Her voice sounds desperately high in her own ears, and her grip flexes. Like a mantra she tells herself to relax, to calm down, because this is where things could go wrong. “But that’s why you have your little toy.”

She manages to point to the speculum, but Angela just chuckles, and presses her forehead against Moira’s thigh, her middle finger steadily, gently working back and forth. “No,” she breathes, and can’t help biting the skin under her. “I don’t think I’ll need it. I think I’d rather stretch you myself.”

Moira stares up at the dimmed downlights, and wonders if Angela is going to kill her.

It’s easy for her eyes to flutter shut when Angela traces quick little circles around her clit. She almost doesn’t feel her ring finger sliding in. Almost.

“Tell me if it gets too much, alright?” Angela’s whispering, and her left hand slides up, under the skirt, to settle over Moira’s abdomen. She exerts steady pressure, and Moira tries not to get distracted thinking how it’s the perfect amount of compression to ebb the flow of blood from a gash. “Moira.”

Moira hisses, and she feels the two rubber-covered fingers inside her crook, and Angela’s pinky and index fingers press flat against the skin near the hollows of her thighs. “I _heard_ you.”

“I’m going to start now, alright? You need to completely relax.” Angela scoots forward on the stool, and slowly starts to work her fingers back and forward, carefully massaging part of her that leaves Moira slack jawed. She sucks a shuddering breath, and stares at Athena’s little, blue, blinking light, and doesn’t even know if she can answer her. “While squirt isn’t urine, the buildup of fluid will make your body feel like you need the bathroom. But you don’t. All you’ll need is to let go of your inhibitions.”

 _Haven’t I already?_ Moira wants to spit, but all she can do is moan because now Angela’s sheathed fingers are moving in firm, steady strokes, and she feels like she’s falling apart.

And Angela isn’t acting like she’s unaffected, too: she swears under her breath, and hisses something in German, and plays around with a new angle as she plays with Moira’s clit and Moira can’t close her eyes without seeing pretty golden stars and red supernovas. All she can hear is her own heavy breaths and Angela’s ever reverent whispering.

Later; she’ll think on what that means later, when Angela isn’t filling her up with her fingers. She was right, there’s a strange pressure building under her abdomen, beneath where Angela is pushing, and it’s distracting, and heady, and she feels so dirty in the best of ways.

“What are you thinking about?” Angela manages, glancing up at her from behind her bangs. “I’m thinking about you fucking me. About you filling me up.”

“ _Fuck,_ Angie--” Moira whimpers, and her fingers still taste like Angela’s slick when she bites down to keep herself quiet.

“What’s wrong? You want that too, right?” There’s a minute increase in the speed of her fingers, but Moira’s eyes roll back in her head. “You’ve wanted to fuck me for a really long time, haven’t you, Mommy?”

Everything is hot. Everything is hot, and her skin is too tight, and she can feel herself clenching around Angela’s diligent fingers, and she doesn’t know where her own slick stops and the lubricant starts. She thinks she can hear Angela huff a half-laugh, half-moan, but it’s something breathy and sounding like her name and completely shattering.

“Fuck, angel,” Moira whispers, and it doesn’t feel like she’s admitting defeat, she still doesn’t feel weak. “How did you know?”

She’s so lost up in this that she almost doesn’t notice Angela slipping her left hand off her stomach and down to the tray. “You’re always looking at me when you think I can’t see. You always look like you want to bend me over, no matter where we are. So dirty, Mommy. Even if we’re in surgery.”

There’s a clatter, because Angela isn’t looking anywhere but her and Moira thinks she could swim in the inky black of her blown pupils. And when Moira looks away, it’s only as she throws her head back against the chair, and as Angela twists the little vibrator on and presses it to her full clit.

Moira’s moan is broken and loud, and she doesn’t know how much more she can take of this. It’s been so long. _So long._ And no one’s ever made her feel like this before. She feels so full she could burst, being pulled closer and closer to the edge of something both beautiful and frightening. 

Of course it’s Angela Ziegler. Of course it is. It wouldn’t be anyone else.

Her fingers move in swift little circles inside of her, and the rubber of her gloves squeak, and she’s wearing the slickest of grins, her hair is sweaty and falling out of its curls and pressing to her cheeks. And she’s beautiful, Angela’s beautiful, even as she tears Moira apart.

“How would you fuck me?” she whispers, rolling the vibe over Moira’s clit. “I know you must have something in mind. You always get so jealous when I talk about past lovers, Mommy, you’d have to fuck me so good I’d forget them all.”

Moira cries out, pressing the side of her face into the leather chair and panting harshly. She’s thought about it, of course she has. Angela’s been all up in her space for the past year, and when she started probing about Moira’s interests, and her past, and her past sexual interests, all the foundations she’d worked so hard to construct started to shake.

“Sometimes,” Angela babbles, because there’s no way Moira can answer her when she’s like this, “I think about you having a cock. I’d sit in your lap in the labs and make you so hard, and I’d ride you in your chair til you’d come.”

It feels like something’s swollen inside her, and her cunt _aches_ with heat. Her fingers clench and unclench against the armrest, and all she can hear is Angela’s laboured breaths, the wet sounds of her fingers prying her apart, the gentle buzz of the world-shattering vibrator as it rolls over her clit. _I don’t know how much longer I can take this,_ Moira wants to weep, _I can’t hold on._

“I think about you coming inside me, I wouldn’t let you pull out.” Oh God, Moira thinks. Oh, God. Oh, fuck. “I’d milk you of every drop.”

“ _Angela,_ ” she keens, and her legs are shaking, and her breathing stops.

Angela pushes down on her abdomen firmly, and presses the vibe flush against her clit. Her fingers don’t let up, not once, and she stares down Moira, biting her lip. “Come on, darling,” she whispers, “come for me. Come for me.”

It’s strange. When Moira looks down between her legs Angela’s smiling up at her, only it’s not wicked, or hungry. It’s soft, and understanding, and if Moira had to choose a word to describe it, all she could possibly conjure to give it shape would be _loving._ And it’s strange, because Angela’s giving her an adoring smile as her fingers rock once, and twice, and then completely turn everything upside-down.

Everything’s _wet,_ and _rushing,_ and every corner of her feels lit and charged, and Moira comes with Angela’s name on her lips followed by a sob. Angela’s fingers pull and pull, and wave after wave of hot come drips out of her, down Angela’s wrist and onto the tarp on the floor. She thrashes in the chair. It’s so depraved and so delicious, and Moira lets herself fall into it, lets go of any ounce of control she might have held, and lets Angela catch her.

“Fuck, Moira,” she laughs, moaning and dropping the vibrator to lap at her soaked and sensitive clit. “There’s so _much._ ”

Eventually the shocks running through her nerves slowly subside, and her jaw loosens, and she swallows the spit on her tongue. Her thighs are still quaking, and her boots slip through the stirrups. Angela’s fingers gently massage the swollen spot in her cunt, til she works them out, one at a time, and Moira gasps wetly.

“Good, right?” Angela asks laughing, stretching up to guide Moira’s boots back through the stirrups, and her legs fall against the chair. She’s flushed and shining with sweat, and probably Moira’s come, too, and that thought makes something swell in Moira’s chest. She watches as Angela stands up and rolls her shoulders, and clips over to the basin to fill a cup with water.

“Here,” she says, tapping her foot on the pedal and angling Moira upwards. “Drink, if you can.”

The water is colder than usual, but maybe that’s because everything is still so hot and fuzzy at the edges. Her throat is dry; probably from all the moaning.

“How do you feel?” Angela asks, watching her with something warm and soft in her eyes. She’s looking at her like she’s something to be proud of. Like she’s impressed at her work.

“Good,” Moira admits, and swallows another mouthful of water. She glances down at the floor, and wishes she hadn’t. “And sorry, I- oh. I’m sorry.”

Instantly that fond look vanishes, and Angela catches her head in her tender, wet hands, and frowns. “Hey, none of that. This was about you feeling good, and you do, yes?”

“Very,” Moira croaks, voice raw. Oh, God, she feels like she needs to be put back together still, like Angela unravelled her and left her to tie herself back up. She shuts her eyes and sucks a wet shaky breath, and nuzzles into Angela’s hands. “Can you do something for me?”

“Anything,” Angela says quickly. Too quickly. Oh, God.

“Can you lay on top of me?”

Angela doesn’t respond, she just takes the cup from Moira’s loose, trembling grip, and it clatters on the tray. The chair hisses as it lowers a little, and Moira’s eyes flash open when she feels soft, warm thighs on either side of her own.

“Like this?” Angela asks gently, shimmying a little to get comfortable. Her arms are bunched either side of her, and she presses her cheek to Moira’s chest, shutting her eyes.

This was a nice distraction, but it isn’t long til Moira’s thinking about the coming weeks and her eyes are stinging at the edges. Whatever happened tonight was nothing more than casual, couldn’t grow to be anything more than a fling. She’s leaving. And Angela will no doubt rise to head of medicine in Overwatch, and she’ll be head of secrets in Blackwatch.

Athena winks at her. The night sky is dark and inky beyond the window, holding thousands of tiny stars. Moira looks down to the tousled blonde head listening to her heartbeats, and swallows.

“Run away with me,” she says before she can think better of it.

A pause. “Where would we go?” Angela replies sleepily.

A swallow. Moira stares out at the smoky clouds, the dull moon. “Anywhere. Anywhere you want. Bern. Lucerne.”

Angela peers up at her, and offers her a strange smile. “Why now?”

Moira’s hands creep to her sides, to hold her still, to keep her here with her. “I’m being transferred.”

Something in that smile turns frigid. Moira can’t look at her.

“Gabe knows.” Her hands shake. “I’m scared. I don’t know what will happen. But I know that you’ll be okay, as long as you don’t trust anyone. Only yourself.”

“But I trust you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

They’re silent for a long time. So long that Moira finds herself shutting her eyes, and her mind drifting. At some point Angela’s gentle fingers start drawing patterns against her sweat-slick shirt. At some point, she sighs.

“Soglio would be nice,” Angela says airily, and Moira blinks dumbly in the dark, til she remembers. “It’s very small, hidden in the mountains.”

“I’d like the mountains. It would remind me of home.”

“Home,” Angela echoes softly, watching her fingers. “In the alps, a flower grows. Or it did. Soft and white, like a hare’s ears. It’s only found high up in the mountains, and it’s very rare. Young lovers would climb the mountains to find the flower, to give it to their sweetheart. It was a sign of dedication, a promise of everlasting love.”

Her fingers splay over Moira’s heartbeat, and for a moment, brief and fleeting, she feels at peace.

“But most of the time, the men would fall to their death, because the mountains were too great to climb."

* * *

 


End file.
